


This complicated thing we have

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Fever, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea of Peter and El seeing him sick, seeing him nasty and snotty, makes him feel about a thousand times worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This complicated thing we have

This complicated thing we have  
Peter/Neal  
A/N: I’ve been drinking. So. [I’ve created a ‘verse out of this.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/46010)  
WC: 564  
PG  
Sick!fic. Neal has a fever.

 

 

“103 degrees,” Peter says, squinting at the digital thermometer.

“Does that mean I’m hot blooded?” Neal says with a leer, followed by a pitiful cough.

“That means,” Peter says seriously, “that you might have pneumonia.”

“Shit,” Neal says and hacks into his pillow until his chest and ribs ache. When he thinks he can speak without busting a rib, he says, “I guess I should probably go home.”

Peter sighs heavily. “You’re out of your mind,” he says with feeling.

Neal has, as long as he can remember, taken care of himself. The idea of Peter and El seeing him sick, seeing him nasty and snotty, makes him feel about a thousand times worse.  “Jesus, Peter. I’ll be fine -- this is just a cold, or something. I’m fine.”

Peter looks at Neal like he’s suddenly sprouted extra arms and started dancing alluringly in the middle of the room. “Neal, _God_ , you’re so beyond fine, it’s not even funny.”

Neal tracks Peter’s movements with the hazy confidence only fever delusions can offer. When he struggles to sit up, the world tilts sharply on its axis and Neal thinks, hey, Peter’s walking on the walls, awesome, before he slumps back down.

And then Peter’s leaning over him, calling him a stupid ass, and laying something cool and wet across his forehead. It feels, it’s just. It’s too good. Neal wants to lean into Peter’s touch, to kiss his palm and beg him not to leave. Something ugly and scared clenches in his belly, makes him lean away from the touch.

Peter frowns. “Neal? Do you need something?”

 _You_ , Neal’s unhelpful brain supplies. Neal says, “No, I’m okay. Really.”

Peter looks at him dubiously. “Fine,” he says. “I’m working from home today, so I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”

Neal’s fuzzy brain latches onto one word --

“Home?”

Peter smiles slightly. “Yeah, I just, I always stay home when El gets sick so I can take care of her and you know--”

“Why?” Neal thinks there’s an important part of this puzzle that he’s missing: he’s trying to fit all the pieces together without knowing what the larger picture looks like.

Peter sits back down on the bed and Neal feels the mattress dip, the solid, steady warmth of Peter’s hip beside his. “Because that’s what you do for the people you love,” he says, like it’s obvious, like it’s a fact that everyone in the world’s aware of except for Neal -- Neal with his issues and slight layer of crazy beneath the placid surface.

Neal could turn away from Peter’s open palm, he could insist on going home and maybe fall and die in the bathroom, choke on his own vomit in bed, or he could--

He could stay, press his face into Peter’s cool fingers and let _go_.

Neal licks his lips; he can feels the cracked, chapped skin beneath his tongue. The rasp of his voice. “Stay with me,” Neal croaks, exhausted, bone-weary and all out of fight.

Peter smiles like Neal’s given him a gift and stretches out next to Neal in bed, strokes one hand soothingly up and down Neal’s side. “Always,” Peter says and that’s the last thing Neal hears before his eyes slide shut and he figures, to hell with it.

He’ll let himself have this, at least this one time.

 

 

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
